There is little space between our fingers

My brain is full of ideas that will burst into electric bloom and fade out.
Like the pain of every writer I have ever known,
These epiphanies will come and go
Only to fall into the finely crackled line that separates my memories from 
My mumbling dreams.

There is the line that will change your career as a prolific wordsmith,
Falling away 
word by word 
never to return in 
the impeccable order you’d dreamed of.
There you have found the stanza that will soothe the stigma in you
If it had just been trapped by its kite strings and harnessed,
Still within grasp for human comfort instead of existing in obscurity;
Floating on like inaudible sound waves
Bobbing in breezes
Unspoken and unfulfilled because
The heart of the words warms you,
The length of the line grounds you.

When you look on in the morning mirror
trying to find the words you lost last night
(Somewhere in the hastily packed baggage under your eyes)
Remember that repetition is not the same as remorse. 

The words of the people you are surrounded by,
They run seared from the silly mouths that bind them,
They run for open space to frolic freely
In the hearts of men who understand 
What it is to accept your humanity,
Your own loneliness as a means of communication 
across the seas of silence.

In the gap we create with our quiet,
We try to drown out the concerns of the confined,
Thinking that in the space we spare in their chests
when we unload all their worries with our words,
It will fit to fill it with air for deep breaths.

It will fit to fill me with syllables for the speechless
As I may spill over,
Strewing my vowels about me like
Misplaced traces. And
May those hopeful or doubtful
Wear their wants on their faces;
So when the stanzas stumble about me
When the wanton come to ask of me

Words wired
On strings of solace
I may aim gracefully

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